1850s farmhouse that was pretty much a tear-down. The fireplace, which needed paint and some tiling, was the only functioning appliance in the place.
But during the winters, I realized that our romantic fire-lit hearth was sucking hot air out of our house. Who knew a traditional fireplace was an energy thief?
And so, in early fall, we invested in a Scandinavian Jotul cast-iron furnace. The pricey purchase—about $4,000—launched grandiose thoughts of greenness: We will heat our house by wood alone! The price was steep but we told ourselves that the fire-insert, along with greenhouse gardening and composting, was another way to teach our young daughter about sustainable living. We got an extra push from the fireplace salesman who told us he had had one left in stock and that they were selling like hotcakes.
It took the sooty guys from the fireplace store five hours to install the cast-iron stove on a warm late September afternoon. It runs on two fans and smoke trails up a stainless steel-lined chimney.
The handsome, matte-black stove is supposed to heat 1,300 square feet—enough coverage to warm the downstairs of our house, and presumably the upstairs because heat rises.
Come October, I was ready to put it to work—our house gets cold easily despite triple-pane windows, weather stripping, and brand-new insulation. But I soon learned that a fireplace insert—like my young child, my cats, and my freelance career—needs constant care and attention.
We started with a half-cord of seasoned wood—the same amount we’ve used every winter. My husband left a hefty pile of wood for me by the fireplace each morning and told me I would have to tend to it. He wasn’t kidding.
Fifteen minutes after I sit down at my desk to start my day, I get up to see the fire. It’s dwindling, so I add wood, open the door to let in more oxygen, close it to let the logs ignite, wait, and then poke the logs to make sure they’re not smothering the fire. Then I repeat this ritual—a thousand times a day.
I’m on the phone back at my desk. Pavlovian chest-tightening starts to occur. I know if the fire goes out, it will be impossible to rekindle the charred logs with a match. I’ll have to scrape out the dead wood and ash and start anew with kindling.
So I wrap up my call and sprint to the fireplace. Whew, just in time. I toss on two more logs.
I chart the temperature on the house thermostat, like a woman trying to get pregnant. The temperature rises by one degree for every three to four hours the fire burns. I take note of how many match strikes it takes to start a fire, how many logs we’re using each day, how the temperature upstairs compares to downstairs. On gusty days, I dash outside to gather felled twigs and small branches for kindling.
People tell me I need to get out more. Get real, I say. I’ve got a fire to tend.
We were pleased when the October gas/electric bill arrived. We used 25 percent less gas this year compared to last year. We would have to air dry our laundry, cook in a barbeque pit, and stop showering to reduce usage to zero.
The days have started to get brisker. Because the last fire of our day withers about 11 p.m., the house is cold by the morning.
“Let’s turn the heat on for just an hour or so while we shower and get dressed,” I squeak meekly, unable to come out from under the down blanket.
“C’mon,” my husband says. “We’re on a mission here. Put on an extra sweater.”
Instead, I turn on the heat until he lights the day’s fire.
From this point, our purist dreams start to go rogue. First, we have depleted our woodpile within six weeks. Though we have trees and my husband likes to wear his red plaid jacket and chop wood, we need at least a cord. That costs $200.
Then the new wood won’t catch easily. We take turns, both stubbornly unwilling to admit we can’t get the fire going. After days of striking matches to no avail, I drive over to the A&P and buy fire starters: $11 for 26 logs.
It stings when I pay the clerk because I had hoped that we could chop our own wood and use matches to start the fire. Instead my efforts with self-sufficiency have shown me that everyone needs a little help now and then. I suspect by next winter I will become a better girl scout; though I imagine it will be a long time before I can get a fire going by rubbing sticks together.
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